


I Will Become your Weapon

by Guts



Series: the road outside my house is paved with good intentions [1]
Category: Snow White and the Huntsman (2012)
Genre: F/M, Southern modern au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guts/pseuds/Guts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who Will be my brother?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sorrow found me when I was young

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is a continuation of the prompt 'they cut across the land', the original piece is called 'you dirty love'. The idea isrough, and I see Kristin Stewart as Hit Girl from Kick Ass. Its set in the south, and its as close to the original characters as possible. I dont know where this is going exactly, like Caurica its an exercise in writing something more than drabble! I hope you like it, its less emotionally charged and 'poetic' as everything else. Im trying to focus on substance. Thank you, please review and critique it!

He speaks into the phone, low at night. The rotary phones curled wire twists endlessly in his quick fingers, coils looping his fingers together and apart, like a catholic schoolgirl with free time and too much gossip.

 

His eyes glint in the sick light of the rundown apartment, the wallpaper peeling in long strips of dust around him.

Snow is at the door, mentally jotting down the dates and times he is saying. She is stealing looks at his oily black suit and his flint eyes.  
They go quick to her and she flies back to her room, toes tap-tapping quiet and swift.

 

It’s been three months since she ran away from the mansion, three sets of weeks that have scored her with scars and bruises.

Huntsman is a drug dealer, an ex-wrestler, a transvestite who had four children before becoming partially male, a runner up for president, a murderer. The first and last are the only ones she knows to be true, she sees the little pills that he takes like vitamins, grinning at her with his shark mouth,

“they ain’t goin’ ta bitecha love, take ya vitamins.” He claims Scottish blood, but she can hear the English sourness and the musical Spanish lilt at times. More than anything, thick south and heavy Scotland. 

She does not take the vitamins, because she knows that his eyes split wider than hell within minutes and that sweat showers his body. He claims it helps him think, but that is probably as true as him having children.

Only god knows what Huntsman is and Huntsman is keeping him quiet.  
As for murder, well, that’s why she’s here.

 

Ravenna Ishamel is an oil tycoon from a tiny town in Indiana, she had buck teeth and mosquito bite breasts when Snow met her, when her father brought her home and dressed her up and put her in front of his five year old for appraisal.

“You’re very lovely.” Snow had said and meant it; she liked the wiry copper of Rava’s hair, the scrawny brawn of her hips jutting from her overalls, the visible bones of her ankle.  
Rava had looked at her grumpily , looked at her father, back, once more. As if trying to decipher a joke she had not understood, she sputtered a thank you, (thenk ya kahndlay)

And retreated to her fiancés bedroom.

The tycoon had looked at his hands a little sheepishly and said,

“That was kind darling, but I believe she thought you were mocking her.”

The wife, mother, heiress of oil, had died and passed her fortune on to Snow and the old Tycoon only two years ago from that exact date.  
Eleanor Ishmael had begged, taunted and forced Snow into every damn pageant, every damn ad, every god forsaken modeling contract she could. And Snow had let her, meekly, humbly, her mother was the end-all, be-all for her.

 

A woman with a figure that had the power of medusa without the morbidity, lips bloodier than the civil war and always, always black curls and good heels.

Snow used to stand in the Jimmy Choo’s, Louboutin’s, her feet filling only a fraction of the expanse. She would try to set her hair in the voluminous curlers, but her hair would never take and she would spy the gold, caramel sheen to her hair and give up. Lipstick, though. That’s something even a simpleton could succeed at.   
It tasted like oil and sin on her lips and she liked to smudge it with her tongue, in to her cheeks, her chin. 

Everything was burnt afterwards, besides the black, sensible Louboutin’s and the Channel perfume. Reminders for Snow that being beautiful would not save you from disease, just one cigarette every other day is not safe when cancer is on your mother’s side. She kept the lipstick, as well. Turned a new leaf, turned a bad leaf. Wore it and it made her different, stronger, stranger, better. 

She couldn’t fight then, at seventeen she was just a war waiting to happen. She was watching Rava get every implant, higher and higher amounts of botox to coax the tycoons gaze to her and not his daughter.

There were prices, temper flared, mind grew tired and veiled, Snow was her rival and Ravenna soon figured out that being rich meant no consequences, no real sadness when little ‘accidents’ happen to your step daughter. 

 

Snow had twenty and still numbers building of conspiracy theories, each carefully jotted down, places, times, Ravenna sneered at them, called her a freak, but now it was paying off.  
Having a tap on the phone, having to watch unending footage of her mothers scarred and ballooned, flattened body, watching the maid kiss the butler after he scarred her face with a knife so the queen would not spare her a look.

Because she can still hear the Indiana slurring off her tongue when she tells the body guard that she will let his wife die quickly if he steps out of the frame long enough to let the sniper take aim.

That his new baby won’t feel it at all, that he should visit her soon, visit her sheets and maybe no one has to die after all.  
No I love you’s, see you at twelve, goodbyes, Ravenna is simple, asks him to call her beautiful.

“You’re beautiful” he sobs at the other end, and the dial tone is so sudden and fierce that snow jumps. 

She binds the sheet but is stupid, she is clumsy, they tear and she falls into the darkness.

She dreams about when shewakes up. In her dream she wakes up hazy and hugs her broken arm, Ravenna looking at her trying to feign concern but finds difficulty with a face that won’t pucker or wrinkle.

“Look sug,” the woman begins, lighting a cigarette and smiling with a few plastic bends of the lips.

Snow resists the urge to clap her hands over her mouth and nose, poisonsticks cancersticks, she doesn’t want to die.  
Rava frowns, fishes in her purse for a second and pulls out Eleanor’s lipstick with a grin.

“Y’all look so pure, sugar. Well let me tell you,” she slashes the lipstick across Snows face, on her cheekbones in a dirty impression of war paint.

“Beauty is pain, you little shit. I am going to be the best, the most beautiful.”

Places the cigarette between Snows lips and Snows eyes go wide, her breath choking as Ravanna holds her arms down, pinches her nose, makes snow breathe toxic air.  
Bitter taste and rage at the theft of her belongings, pain rushing in from her arm, Snow screams wordlessly at her. A brattish, childish way of getting her feelings known. She spits the cigarette straight at her face and it leaves a pale burn there.

“You fuckin’ crazy li’l bitch” the oil queen screams, her eyes full of bloodlust. 

She grabs Snow by the neck, shoulders, shakes her silly and Snow has that feeling that the servants are paid off and the maid is threatened and no one in the entire five stories could give less of a shit right now.

“Daddy loves ME best, you brat.” Ravenna is shrieking,   
“ME, Wanna know why precious? Sweet baby?”

And Snow whimpers and shakes her head, Ravenna grabs her mouth and shakes it like an aunt calling you too cute to live, too pretty to be so angry.  
“Because I am the beauty queen, baby. And you ain’t shit anymore. I got him round my little finger.”

She pauses and releases Snow, her eyes darkening as she retreats swiftly to the other side of the room.  
“You wanna know how your momma died, little girl?”

Ravenna grins and her nose is bleeding, from stress or anger or weak vessels and its in her veneers, staining them pink and glossy red.  
“Lets just say I had big plans and your momma was flamin’ hot shit at the time. Ain’t nobody gunna get in my way this time.”

She turns on her heels, click, clicking (Snow swears to god if they were the Louboutins she would have attacked her then and there). Ravenna stops at the doorway, wipes her nose, licks her teeth inside her mouth and smiles sweetly at snow.

 

“Good night baby, don’t do nothin’ I wouldn’t do or Ill rebreak that arm tomorrow. And sugar?”  
Snow looks at her from the disarray, the warzone of the room,

“If you start lookin anythin’ like your momma, so help me.”

Snow wakes then, flashing images of those teeth filled with blood and she stifles a shriek when she sees them close to her.  
But its just Huntsman, asleep, his shaggy hair curling on her stomach, stark against her black, AC/DC shirt.  
His mouth is open boorishly, his teeth stained red from his cut face. 

Fighting, always, punching anything that moves, he’s a professional with knives, can send you straight to sleep with a little punch, needs to work on his cross bow and long bow but is overly adequate shot with guns. 

She combs through his bloody hair and remembers the story.

 

She sneaked out and was brought back after her step mother screamed at her, it was an endless cycle, she didn’t finish homework because she was too busy creating a detailed blueprint of the mansion, rumor was that half the school was in love with her, no matter the gender.

She felt like that was another example of math homework she would never understand, what did they feel? Fondness, love, lust, arousal? Fear for her? What drove them, besides her mother’s sweet face and her ancestors bones?

She ignored them and kicked them in the shins when they tried to pin her to the lockers,

The Huntsman wasn’t originally her man, he followed the oil queen. 

Picked up girls who were nearing beauty that hadn’t taken piles of money, who had breasts that were natural and hung without the plastic gouging inside them.  
He kissed them silly and put them in the ditch, took something of theirs for the oil queen to remember them by.

A hangnail, a jeweled barbell that fit right into their bellybuttuns, a tongue with a metal ball still in it, a scrap of tattooed flesh. She takes them from him, sweeps her bleached curls back and entices him back to her room.

 

She imagines them a spider and a fly, orbiting each other shakily, their loyalties weak. 

She is sure that Huntsman was under her sway because the Queen had her finger on his wife, she’s heard tales, legends of the amount and strength of drugs he took when the oil queen found her too beautiful to stand.

Snow wonders how it is for other people, if Washington, Montana are different. If they don’t have a corrupt woman grinding everyone down into the dust with her heel.  
She doesn’t care, something burns in her, her heart is sick and twisted and wild with ways to get revenge. 

She knows more blood won’t fix the horror the queen sweeps through the land, but it will satiate the peoples lust for blood and pain.   
When he comes for her, she has been waiting for weeks. Wearing the lipstick and heels to school, and the red of the Louboutins is rubbed raw and clean off. She steps into the sun and the granite steps echo beneath her, her heart sunglasses are too sweet for her, but that’s the point.

He is folding his arms and smoking against his car, his eyes check her methodically, stopping at her breasts and thighs and carrying his grin like an alligator.  
When he asks her if she needs a ride, she grates his hips against the car with her own and takes the cigarette. 

“You seen ruin, cowboy?” She smiles, and his face could almost reflect in her lips.

“Somethin’ tells me ‘m about to.” He replies, putting her glasses on his own face as she smokes his cigarette.

“Where you headed, baby?”

Her eyes go flat and dead.

“Hell. How far you goin’?” 

His grin is bloodied.

“All the way there.”


	2. push me out to sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Im sick of not being able to write like I want. I want it to come out in sentences, but its like I throw up violently and try to create words from it.

You have a good eye for ditches. You’re a ditch connoisseur with roots in back water towns and unpaved roads. You make your bed where your dusty car goes; you make your heart your queen’s hands.

 

You are a long story and a particularly boring one compared to everyone else’s in this busy city.   
You had a wife, you went to college together, convinced her to drop out, got her fat with your babies and then they died. 

 

There is more, slathering details that tug at your heart.

Your wife’s little hands, the nails all red and rusty from strawberries grasping your upper arms, her hair in her face and the jam you threw splattering her freckled face like stars in a universe. 

Her hands constantly on her swollen belly, your hands over her hands and a faint kick that made you cry when you first felt it.

The first time you saw her, with her stomach bared and a skirt to her ankles, a little lady in a girl’s body. Algebra 101 became a song about two hearts becoming one and bullshit.  
Her voice when she died, over the telephone. The whisper and grate of her tongue rolling words to you. 

You don’t do this to yourself, because you really shouldn’t feel anything. You are a little punk shit from the part of town that barely serves a purpose besides being scapegoats and drop outs.   
You hid your family with the first thousand you made. 

Wrestling, fighting, men in suits betting on neck slit or back snapped. A goliath storms toward you. You burn red hot and run fast, move like light to stab him. 

Its quick work for hard people, you turn twenty in a blaze of glory and broken teeth. The neighborhood has one dentist, a sailor mouthed grandma with a constant gaggle of grandbabies on her hip.

 

She fixes your teeth, and speaks in Yiddish to the babies on the floor.

“the drill, siskeit.” She says softly to the doe eyed ten year old. 

Anesthesia is too expensive and you grab your leg, nails digging in as she digs in. 

“Where is your mame, siskeit? Where did your mater go, sweetheart?” you shake your head.

Words travel like fire in this town, it would be out of your mouth and before you know it, the alcoholic mother of six in the apartment on the east side is screaming at the fireman to save the alcohol cabinet after the children.

You didn’t understand, for a long while, what was wrong with people here. They’re wrong.   
Messed up.  
Twisted.  
Then you met the Queen.

You had fought your way to the top,   
You had been too angry from the loss of your wife.  
You butchered your way into the throne room, where an oiled redwood table, twenty feet long traveled across the room. The queen, with her canvas skin and stretched face sat there, tapping a foot.

Undeniably beautiful, horrifically perfect.

The kind of woman who made pornstars in the magazines you peeked at as a child look like sad excuses for a man’s woman. 

Part of you fell on the floor and groveled, the other half ripped your share of her heart out and ate it.

You stood there, panting. Blood on you, crusting. Blood from the bodyguards, the men who were paid to watch, blood from where an arrow is burrowed in the muscle of your hip. 

 

You must look like you were dragged up from hell, your hair long, your teeth snarling.

“Well, Look-y here.” The Queen says and smiles.   
“Hows Anne? The babies?” she is walking toward you, the rise from her chair an exultant, fast sweep.

Your mother’s name is Anne. Her middle name is Hyacinth. Your baby sister turned ten this year. You turn cold. 

She is crafty. She’s been watching, knowing you would rise higher, fight more ferociously and longer.

You underestimated her.   
She takes your face in her hands as your knees give out. 

You kneel there, and you begin to cry.

This is something profoundly hard to share for you, but something that cannot be avoided.  
You love your mother beyond anything, anyone.

You are the oldest, you are the one who brought home bread to them when they were starving, who held the newborn baby as it cried and your mother went to work. Who killed your father when he tried to push your mother down the stairs and beat her to death there, her hands over her pregnant stomach, sobbing, sobbing. Her face screwed up and red, the fondness you felt was too strong, you would not let her die.

You have nothing to say. 

Your mother was everything, your baby sisters bouncing on your knee, their tiny, unbelievably small hands closed around your fingers, their little blue eyes wide.  
Their gurgling laughs in the summer. Strollers, the public park where the middle schoolers did drugs in the colored slides and the benches were covered in coarse rap lyrics and graffiti of large, naked women. 

They are your whole world. 

You do what she says.

You do every word of it. 

You curse yourself. For not looking for a more remote location, for not making them change all of their names. But, you know in your heart, there was nothing you could have done.

She still would have seen that glint in your eye. Known you would knock on her door, guns raised high.

She saw it in Snow.   
The baby girl in your passenger seat, her mouth wide and her eyes void. 

She knows what you and her, people like you grow up to be.  
You grow up to take down kings. 

Well, queens.   
The upcoming ditch looks good. 

a body would fit nicely in the tall grass, Snows white curves a haiku against the dark, dripping water in the bottom. 

Look at you, getting romantic in your old age. You think you’ll take her ears back.   
Along with her heart, of course.


End file.
